A/N: YAY! I have been wanting to write a Spuffy fic for the longest time, and now I finally have!! I probably should have gone and read some other Spuffy fics before I wrote my own, though, because I was writing this totally blindly. I had no idea how to do it, and I'm sure this has been done a hundred times, anyway, but WHO CARES? It was super fun to write, and was a nice break from my PotC fic, which I still love dearly, but have been writing nonstop all week. Well, I hope y'all enjoy it!! Thanks for reading!! Remember that reviews are greatly appreciated!!
Oh, and this (pretty clearly) takes place at some random point during season six... some time after they first had sex, and before he almost raped her.
The door of his crypt slammed open with a menacing bang. Lounged in his decrepit armchair, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his long white fingers, he gave an intoxicated chuckle. "Not you, again," he garbled with a throaty laugh. He could smell her, and inhaled deeply just so he could intake her uniquely delicious scent, despite the fact that his heart did not need the breath to pump. He placed his hand over his chest as though to check that the thing was still out of commission, and groaned irritably as her heels clicked noisily on his stone floor, drawing nearer to him. "You're driving me bloody crazy, woman," he spat, finally turning his neck to glare at her. She was just as frustratingly beautiful as she ever was, and it sickened him. He smirked, and stood quickly with a single fluid gesture that he hoped might intimidate her. But why would it? She, the Slayer, could never fear him.
Infuriated by her stoic expression, he let his eyes travel probingly down her stiff figure. Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest, pressing her adorable little breasts together beneath her low shirt—scarlet, like the hot blood he could sense racing in that sweet little vein he knew was pulsing at her bare throat. He licked his lips, and tore his eyes away, running a hand awkwardly through his tangled blonde hair. "Did you want something special, pet, or have you just come for another poke at my pitifully tender feelings, eh?"
Buffy shook her head, her shining eyes narrowed dangerously at him, challenging him, the way she always was. "You don't have feelings, Spike," she told him, her voice stern, mocking, and cruel.
He scoffed. "Ha. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, you virulent little know-it-all." He took a step forward to her, absorbing her lively warmth, reveling in the sudden change in her expression. Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes fell to his chest, which his loose, unbuttoned shirt revealed graciously to her. At the same time, disgust flitted behind those beautiful eyes, as though she were simultaneously aroused and repulsed by him. The combination made him laugh. "Oh, I know what you've come for, Slayer," he grumbled, growing steadily closer to her until he was barely an inch away from her tempting, blood-filled body. He could hear her heartbeat pounding maddeningly in his ears, and feel her panting breath striking his face in teasing gusts. God, she was so wonderfully human, and so marvelously strong, and he could not resist her. Never in his prolonged lifetime could he ever bring himself to turn her away. He loved her—pathetically, tragically so—and he hated it, but he would never deny it. Not anymore.
She rolled her eyes, but bit her plump little lip in a guilty pout. He was right. He loved it when she came to him this way: craving him, needing him, using him, and inevitably leaving him. He sneered, understanding, and placed his whiskey bottle to his lips once more. He downed its remains, and then smashed the empty glass container somewhere to his left. Buffy watched it explode on the ground, and took a tiny step away from it as the sound echoed through the crypt. At the sight of her slight surprise, he could feel a familiar tickling sensation in his lower stomach. Her fear aroused him greatly, and made him want to protect her, to shield her from evil, to save her, to hurt her himself. Lust overtaking him, he reached for her. His hands clasped around her upper arms, he pulled her into him, preparing to devour her lips with his.
But she, as always, was too strong, and too controlling. She freed herself of his grip easily, driving him mad with desire, and punched him hard with an ominous crunch that indicated he'd be rather swollen by the next day. "Oh, please," he hissed, spitting a small amount of blood onto the floor. "Bloody hell, you pestilent little temptress, don't give me that. I know you need me. I know you need me to live, to feel sane, to stay well for your precious little Scooby gang, so they don't worry about your state of mind, or worry that you wish they'd left you in the grave."
"Shut up, Spike," she snapped, clenching her fist threateningly again, and cracking her tough knuckles. Her gaze was hard and piercing, but cloudy with pain and desire as well. "You don't understand. You do not understand my reasons for being with you, and that's fine with me, but don't assume…" She opened and closed her fist several times as though she didn't know what she was doing. Staring down at her slick, black high-heeled shoes, she said, "Don't assume I need you, Spike. I do not need you."
He smirked again, and stared hungrily at her quivering lips as she looked back up at him with regret and self-hatred swimming in her eyes. "Of course you don't, love," he said tenderly, reaching out a cautious hand to her face. This time, she did not protest, or make a move to punch him again. Success rose gleefully inside him as his fingertips collided with her cheek, and he brushed aside a few strands of her short, blonde hair. He let his palm linger there, and she closed her eyes, feeling the power of his strong hand on her. "You're a bloody mystery," he said quietly, and she opened her eyes again, blinking so temptingly up at him. Her eyelashes fluttered sweetly, and he could not help himself. He bent down, and captured her mouth in his. She did not kiss him back until he bit down on her top lip, hard, and he felt her then smirk against him. He laughed, knowing he had gotten her right where he wanted her, knowing he had won.
Buffy put her hands to his shoulders, and walked him forcefully backwards until he felt his back collide with a stone wall. She leaned up and pressed her lips against his greedily. It was with a rage of passion that he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, and caressed her teeth. She bit down, pinning him to her mouth in her strong bite, and he emitted a tortured groan of needy lust. Her fingers worked at the belt of his dark jeans as she held him there, teasing the tip of his tongue with her own. He was glad when she freed him from his pants, for they had grown uncomfortably tight within the past minute. She reached between them, and stroked his masculinity with her strong, deft hand. He tore his aching tongue from between her teeth, and dug in at her throat, licking her delectable, succulent flesh, imagining her sweet blood spilling into his mouth and filling him. But he would not do it; he could never hurt her. Her nails dug suddenly into his neck, and he gave a sharp intake of breath at the inviting pain. "No biting," she warned him, and he snarled against her skin.
"No worries, pet," he breathed, planting one more kiss over the gorgeous blue veins in her neck before pulling back. "I wouldn't want to, anyway."
She raised her eyebrows skeptically, and let out a short, derisive laugh. "Oh, you would," she said teasingly, sliding his shirt from his shoulders before scraping her manicured fingernails down his chest. His lust mounted, and an involuntary, animalistic growl escaped Spike's throat.
"God, Slayer," he moaned huskily as she fell to her knees before him. "The things you do could kill a man."
"Not if he's already dead," she said, and his lifeless heart gave an odd jolt at her words. Why did she always remind him of it? Why was she so determined to make him feel beneath her? This time, he decided as her statement rang in his head, he would not be in her power. This time, he would not let himself be beneath her—in any sense.
He glared down at her, and caught her chin in his fingers before she could drive him mad with her mouth on him. "Stop it," he ordered, and pulled her back to her feet. She did as she was told, and he felt himself grow even more aroused at her compliance. He smirked. "Not this time, pet," he told her. "Tonight, it's my turn."
"Your turn?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. "Your turn for what?"
"Control," he grumbled into her ear, and he grinned in satisfaction when he felt her tremble weakly in his arms.
"You will never have control of me, Spike," she told him seriously.
Spike chuckled silently, letting his hands slide up her sides, beneath her shirt. "I know that, darling," he said unconcernedly, allowing his muscular fingers to caress her skin. He lifted her arms, and slowly let the fabric of her shirt ride up with his trailing hands, so he could throw it over her head and finally fling it to the ground, leaving Buffy's beautiful body free for him to enjoy. She wore no bra, for she had known it would only hinder what she had planned—this splendid, inevitable interaction. He knelt before her, and took one breast into his skilled mouth. His insides were churning with desire to take her, to claim her, but for now, he focused his tongue around her delicious, pert nipples, wanting only to tease her as she had done to him so many times before.
She sighed as his fingers found the button of her jeans. He undid them surprisingly quickly, and slid them down her legs, letting his fingers run down her smooth thighs and calves as he did. He forced them over her feet, pulling her fancy shoes off with them, and slid back up to stand before her again. He laughed, and wrapped his arms about her waist, forcing her against his strong, hard body. She let out a small squeal of pleasure as he rubbed against her, and he felt nearly ready to burst as he watched her squirm at his caress. He dropped to his knees again, this time dragging her down to the floor with him. She yelped as they tumbled down awkwardly, but he laid her down with gentle hands, much to her surprise.
But that was perhaps the last gesture of gentility he meant to show that night. Indeed, the moment she had collided safely with the stone ground, he let out a grunt of desire, and roughly reached between their quivering bodies. He was still pressed hard against her, pinning her there, as his fingers slipped inside her and penetrated her mercilessly. She squealed, and he covered her mouth with his other hand as he thrust his fingers deeper into her dripping core, scraping her insides with sharp nails. Her eyes rolled with pleasure, and he could feel her moaning against his hand that gagged her. Buffy could have easily escaped, but she was not struggling against him, merely writhing just like any woman would have beneath Spike's skilled, harsh ministrations. He cackled cruelly, enjoying the sight of her pinned helplessly, unable to speak or move beneath him. He loved controlling her, no matter how temporary and unreal this control really was. She was melting, tightening around his fingers and soaking his hand with her arousal. He moaned, feeling himself grow mad with the need to have her, now.
As he removed his hand from between her legs, he felt her tongue touch his other palm, which was still clamped forcefully over her mouth. He let that hand slip away from her face at last, and trail down her neck, shoulder, and arm, so he could pin her wrist above her head. She gasped as the air flooded back into her mouth, but he interrupted that sensation with his wet fingers pressing into her mouth as though it were his tongue. She coughed, but soon a wicked smirk crossed her features, and she closed her lips, gently suckling on her own juices that coated his fingers. When he pulled them free, she panted. "Spike," she urged, "please. Now."
He pinned her other wrist beside her first, and sneered down at her. "God, Slayer, I do so love to see you begging like that."
She groaned with frustration. "Oh, come off it, Spike," she pleaded irritably. "Please!" He did not give in, however, and instead took her roughly in his arms and flipped her onto her stomach. She could have fought back or protested, but she was still too shaken by the bliss he had caused her. He pinned her in this position, and held her wrists by the sides of her head once more. He chuckled, enjoying her continuing frustration. "Spike," she demanded again, slightly muffled by the stone floor beneath her. "Come on, damn you!"
Without anymore hesitation, he used his knees to spread her legs wide, and shoved himself gruffly inside of her soft center from behind. He could feel his need to release already plaguing him, but he restrained himself, and closed his eyes. He kissed her shoulder blades and ran his tongue along the back of her neck, making her shiver. Tightening his hold on her wrists to the point where he knew he was bruising her, he began to move within her, pleasuring her at last. He was not sensitive, and he was not considerate about it. He had taken her before, and he knew she was not like that—she did not need to be made love to, she simply needed to be fucked, and he was more than willing to give her that, now. Every thrust was violent, and made her shriek with pain and heightening ecstasy. The bliss consumed them, enveloped them, and surrounded them with screams and grunts of pleasure and desire. He could feel his sanity explode as she cried out for him, begging him to make it hurt more, and to take her harder. His eyes were rolling, and his mouth was wide as he panted hard, losing himself in the feel of Buffy, loving every inch of the woman, and just wishing she would love him, too.
He shot inside her, pounding into her harder than ever in these last few moments of overwhelming rapture. He grunted as he finished, but did not want it to end. He never wanted to leave her. He wanted to be inside of her forever and always, and he prayed that the moment when she'd get up to abandon him again would never come. "God, Slayer," he sighed, rolling off of her weakly, his limbs trembling and his face split into an uncontrollable, satisfied grin. "You feel…"
Buffy sighed, and sat up, recovered already. "Yeah, I know, Spike," she said over the end of his sentence. "I know." Her voice was thick with contentment and regret, and it pained him in the strangest and most unfamiliar of ways. He hated these feelings she was able to provoke in him. He leaned his head back, panting contently, and avoiding looking at her as she began to scramble around on the floor for her clothes.
"Will you never stay, afterwards?" he growled, staring mournfully at the ceiling of his crypt.
She snorted. "No, Spike; of course I won't." She tugged on her shirt, and wriggled into her tight jeans again. He listened to the sounds of her dressing, but it only made him feel more irritable, so he tried instead to focus on the steady, deafening beat of her heart. It was like a lullaby to him. His eyes fell gently closed, and his unnecessary but comforting breathing started to even out again.
When he heard her heels being fastened back onto her feet, he sighed. "You do know I'm in love with you, don't you?" Spike listened to her getting to her feet.
"Yeah," she said, and there was amusement and disgust evident in her sardonic tone. "If you say so, Spike."
He sat up suddenly, letting his eyes snap open again. "Listen to me," he snarled. "I don't know how many times I've got to bloody tell you, but I—"
Buffy flinched, putting up a hand to signal him to stop. "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Spike. Please, don't…" Her hand fell to her side, and she looked longingly towards the door, avoiding his earnest gaze. "Don't say it again."
His heart—if only it were beating—sank miserably in his chest, but he kept his face placid, not letting on how deeply she affected him. "Alright, pet, I'll be good. Only for you, though, Slayer. Only for you." He glared at her as she retreated without a word. She kept her head stubbornly facing ahead of her as she swung the heavy door open again, and slipped through it before slamming it shut behind her.
Spike waited several moments until he could no longer smell her luscious scent in the vicinity before he let out an enraged bellow like a wounded beast. "Ruddy, sodden, teasing little bitch!" he roared, flailing wildly about, kicking and punching anything in his reach. "Damn that Slayer!" His hand made contact with the broken glass from his empty whiskey bottle, and blood slid down his palm, over the useless veins of his wrist, and dripped down his forearm. He lapped it up hungrily, fury driving him crazy with need for something—anything to assuage him.
His tongue found the source of the deep cut on his palm and he licked it clean. He could smell the remnants of her on his fingers, and he brought them to his mouth, mingling her taste with the taste of his blood, and moaning with desire. Why didn't she love him? Why couldn't she get over herself and realize how painfully stupid he was about her, and how devoted he was to her? Would he really be doomed to being used by a measly human girl for the rest of her life until she died, and then would he be still held captive by her memory for all eternity? He didn't think he could stand it.
And yet, no matter how deeply his situation tormented him, he loved her, and would not stop. He loved the agony she caused him deep inside in his nonexistent soul, and how cold she left his dead heart every time she left him. So perhaps he was a masochist, but he did not care. He loved her, and would allow himself to be continually used by her until it eventually destroyed him—or her.